Vladimir Mayakovsky
I smeared the weekday map...

I smeared the weekday map, in passing,
while splashing paint from a glass;
revealed upon a plate of aspic
the ocean’s angled cheeks at last.
In scales of a tin fish, hidden,
I’ve read the calls of lips yet mute.
Could you
                  have played a nocturne
                                                       given
a common drainpipe for a flute? 

Translated by Andrey Kneller